


Completely Illogical

by InuVampireChan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 04:00:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9417566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InuVampireChan/pseuds/InuVampireChan
Summary: You've had those dreams right, right? The ones where you fall and wake up right before your body hits the ground. But have you ever had the dreams where you wake up--but can't actually wake up? Dreams you're trapped in and all you want to do is wake up?Then you have to ask yourself, because you can't wake up, is it actually a dream? And if it is a dream then how do you wake yourself up when you think you might already be awake?





	

There was always something, wasn't there? There always had to be because it was Sherlock. There wasn't a single day that could pass by where the man wasn't doing something on purpose no less to try and spark something within the ex-army doctor. Because Sherlock wouldn't be Sherlock if he didn't try to see the extent at which he could push John.

Worst of all—the Doctor was sure it was for an experiment. John had already figured that Sherlock had issues with believing people wouldn't leave him, abandon him, run away—even if he would never admit to it. Because that was what people did around Sherlock. Either the Detective was used for his brain or shoved away because people couldn't handle someone knowing every little thing about them with just a glance.

So, even if he wasn't as smart as Sherlock, John had deduced that Sherlock tested him now and again just to see if John was like the others. There was always the possibility that John could be wrong about that, clearly, but it was the only thought that kept him from actually walking out. That and the reminder that John was Sherlock's one friend; even Sherlock admitted to that.

He wouldn't lie, the thought that he was Sherlock's one friend was incredibly pleasing to John. It sent a sort of warmth through his heart and made the days where Sherlock should be unbearable—actually bearable.

Don't get him wrong, he cared about Sherlock more than he should, more than anyone probably did (aside from Mycroft), and he would never leave. But there were days, much like today, where he thought about walking out and—then he found himself wondering if he should go back. Those days, those excessive feelings, were rare—but they did happen because Sherlock just had to push him.

It started at the case, like most days, and Sherlock had mocked his intellect because he saw things that John didn't. That no other person aside from Sherlock could possibly see because they didn't have his eyes. John had bit back at him, got angry, and Sherlock just kept pushing with his; "oh don't give me that look John, practically everyone is an idiot". It was just so infuriating and then to come home to a kitchen full of body parts and a disgusting table the Genius thought was beneath him to clean up (though the look he shot John said that and not his words), he could feel himself reaching the end of his possible strength to handle Sherlock.

He thought about going for a walk to calm his nerves but it was raining so hard, a clear storm obviously settling in. Of course he could go to the Pub for a drink or a cafe for a cuppa—they wouldn't be to far of a walk. He just needed space from Sherlock, space from his genius brain, his irritating words, to which he didn't even appear to understand how they effected John. Even though the Doctor knew he did, he could read it all over John's face like a book, he simply didn't care--

\--When that last thought hit him, it was like all resolve to stay in the flat left him and his legs moved themselves over to his jacket. He took it off the rack, pulled his arms thought it and as he made his way toward the stairs he heard Sherlock address him, the music from the violin stopping as he called out.

"John? Where are you going?"

He didn't even spare a glance back. "Out!"

The Doctor vaguely caught a glimpse of Mrs. Hudson's worried expression before she started the stairs to the flat, perhaps to yell at Sherlock, but the door was already closed behind him as he started down the road.

He wasn't even halfway to the Cafe or Pub when the rain finally started to set in and the flashes of lightning lit up the sky. He attempted to quicken his pace when a particularly bright flash was seen above him. The ground seemed to shake when it made contact before the smoke started to rise up into the air. From where he could see it John was sure it was a few streets over and whatever poor persons house it hit was clearly on fire, if the sounds of the siren that started to scream into the air didn't give that away. 

With a more determined pace in his steps, John headed toward the Pub—at the same time his phone pinged. He went to reach for it, fingers ghosting over the edge of the gadget, when another bolt of lightning struck. The Doctor didn't even need to look up to know where it hit. It was like someone had punched him in the back of the head, but there wasn't any pain, just the feeling of shock. He could feel his entire body lock up and a sick feeling in his head, a sort of haze one got during an incredibly high fever from a cold.

And then he fell, and that was when the real pain started.

His head connected with the concrete on the ground beneath him and John could feel blood seeping out of the wound. He tried to roll over but his entire body still refused to listen to him. With the intense buzzing in his ear it was impossible for him to actually know if someone had seen him, and the blur in his vision made it to hard to focus.

John could feel the cold creep of darkness coming on, knowing full well that he was going to pass out, and instead of fighting it his body seemed to welcome it.

"--Watson!Watson! Captain Watson, get up!"

It was pure impulse at this point, to respond to the military command, especially one in the voice of a Commander. The army Doctor's eyes snapped open and John rose his back up off of the ground to a sitting position, his head spinning widely as he took in the form of the man in front of him. He almost missed it, almost, in his haste to respond to the command.

The heat that surrounded them, the blazing temperature and high sun in the sky. His fingers probed at the ground where he sat, curling and uncurling around the sand almost as if to steady himself in the understanding that this was real. A real feeling, something to cling to because in a dream he would not feel the small grains of the sand. It was hot and the texture rough against his skin. He knew where he was but he didn't want to believe it; Afghanistan.

His first thought of course was that this was a nightmare, he didn't want to believe he was here all over again and how he could have possibly ended up back was—well impossible. But the feeling of the heat and the grains of sand made it just as impossible for him to not believe that, not to mention the person who was standing above him looking actually concerned and a bit irritated. He didn't recognize this man—no, that was a lie, he did recognize him but not from his time in Afghan.

Then; John let his eyes roam over the others body. It was impossible for an army man to not recognize a uniform after all. Which was why he knew it wasn't correct, it wasn't from his time, but John knew where it was from which only sated his idea of who the General before him was.

John wet his suddenly dry lips and opened his mouth, but what came out was far from what he wanted to say. "Sir, Commander Roberts, I'm up Sir!" As if to prove his words John slowly stood and placed his hands behind his back, the right one gripping his left wrist. Commander Frederick Roberts of the Commander-in-Chief of the Forces (till the position was abolished). John had seen a picture of him in a history book. There was no way logically that he should be standing before him, and yet here he was.

Which of course brought him back to his first theory; a dream.

"Captain Watson we are moving out, word has arrived of an invasion upon the camp. We need to put it to a halt before it's passing. Prepare yourself and your men, no doubt a doctor shall be needed. Even, perhaps, as a soldier. Ready your good aim!"

He recognized a dismissal when he heard it, even being so long out of the military. His body moved into the usual position for a salute before turning and stalking off in the direction of where he saw the medical tent. His movements were quick and without fault until he was sure that the Commander was no longer watching him.

A ditch, his body was in a ditch to protect himself from being shot. He was standing here, under the blazing sun, in the middle of 1880's Afghanistan! Was it even 1880? He knew that Roberts, from his history books, was the general in 1851 until 1904. But all that told him was it was either 1851 or 1904!

Wait—was he actually even believing that he was in the past?Nonsense, Sherlock would laugh at him for even considering such a thing!Sherlock, how would he figure out what was wrong? Well, he would look a person over and deduce everything, leave no small rock unturned. Looking at everything before him only lead to the conclusion he was in Victorian time, so he had to look at the other facts.

The last thing he remembered was heading to the Pub, incredibly pissed at Sherlock and his arse way of treating a friend. What happened afterword? He couldn't really remember, aside from the feeling of stiffness and a pain in his head. Did he hit his head?

Instinctively the doctors hands went up into his head, knocking his hat off and running his fingers through his hair. No pain, no marks, but he could feel everything. He could feel his hands in his hair, the tug and slight pain when he yanked on the locks—dreams didn't have warmth or pain. Dropping his hands back down to his side he retrieved his hat off of the ground and stared at it.

So he could either believe this impossible thing was reality and play it out, or he could stick to that it was dream and try to wake himself up. But if it wasn't a dream, as improbable as that sounded, he would only get himself hurt trying to wake up. How did Sherlock do all of this? Sort through all of these ideas and possibilities to come out with the proper way to understanding a situation and how to solve it.

Well; as the man himself would say, the Game is On.

The only thing to do now was to try to solve the puzzle.

John shoved the hat back onto his head and stepped into the tent, every Doctor and Nurse raising their head to look up to him. In a voice he hadn't had to use, in this context, in so long he gave the command to start packing up. One thing John was always good at; following orders. The others didn't question his word and simply followed to do as instructed. He helped where he could and made sure to familiarize himself with the old medical equipment.

Being a doctor in this time he was sure it was worse than in his own. They didn't even have half of what he used during his war time and John knew that supplies were very hard to come by.

When everything was taken down and ready to be moved, John returned to the Commander and informed them that the medics were ready to move the second they gave the order. If a battle was about to go underway, he knew that the Medic's would be placed close and yet still far enough that they wouldn't interfere or be interfered with. It was standard procedure to have a medical tent close by whenever action was going to commence. Small army groups for scouting usually had at least one medic with them but to have a few—John knew this wasn't a small scouting group.

John took a moment to look down at his body to familiarize himself with what he was wearing. He recognized it immediately; lightweight gray linen uniforms purpose-made for the expeditions in the Anglo-Ashanti wars and Mahdist War. It was a gray version of what people had dubbed the 'redcoats' uniform from the British war, and it became the official service dress in India during the Second Anglo-Afghan War, the first general adoption of military camouflage for the infantry.

That narrowed down his timeline significantly. They had to be in the Second Anglo-Afghan War which meant his timeline was now between 1878 to 1880. From the looks of the soldiers around him and how dirty his uniform was, even being torn, they had to have been here a while—even a year John would guess. He had a single-shot, breech-loading, .45-70calibre rifle and a service pistol. He searched through his pockets a bit and came back with a knife and some medical supplies but nothing else truly helpful.

He wasn't familiar with these style of weapons and that very fact unnerved him slightly. Sure he had used a rifle and pistol before but never ones this old and he could only hope that whatever was happening to him—would end before he had to.

Thec all of the Commander-in-Chief startled John back to what he was supposed to be doing and he forced himself to push his feet forward to continue playing the game he had been so ungently tossed into because Sherlock chased him from the flat.

That arrogant, condescending, stubborn, genius arse!

Nearly three hours into walking through the hot desert of Afghanistan made John realize how much he truly did not miss being here. He could feel himself craving food and water already, his body having gotten used to being in London more than the middle of a war. He knew though that if was already starting to feel all of this it was several times worse for the people he was with. He made sure to check as many of the other soldiers as he could, finding a few who were dehydrated and instructed them to drink even a little bit of water.

He was sure they would end up stopping soon if only because the sun was going to set. It so happened though that such a thing was exactly what the enemies were looking for. Sun setting meant hard to see, easier for shots to betaken if people were so daring, and apparently they were. The first shot rang through the air like a bomb being set off. The bullet struck in one of the soldiers heads and John knew he was gone, beyond help with a bullet between his eyes.

With these sort of rifles John knew the enemy couldn't be to far and his eyes quickly moved in the settling sunlight to try and locate them.It wasn't awfully hard and the Doctor tugged out his own gun, turning it around a few times before cocking it and taking aim. His first shot, on a battle field in years, but he took it with pride and confidence. The gun had a lot more kick than he was expecting and the doctor felt it jam into his left shoulder, causing a grimace on his face.

He took the man down just as another shot took the one next to him. The doctors instincts kicked in and he moved to the young mans side, ripping his shirt open and looking down to the bullet in his stomach. Quickly he applied pressure, telling the man it wasn't to bad though John knew at this time the likelihood of surviving the wound was near impossible.

Still, he tried, and with his back to the enemies he never saw the bullet coming right for his shoulder.

John didn't remember passing out, he didn't remember his head hitting that of the soldiers below him, didn't remember the light leaving the eyes of the young man beneath him or hear the subtle'thank you' that was directed to him.

When he woke up the Doctor found himself laying in an old hospital bed with a woman standing over him. He frowned at her clothes, his mind trying to catch up and remind him he wasn't in his time. She informed him he'd slept for a week, the doctors had no idea why it took him so long to wake up or even why he woke up back here. This was a second time though that a shoulder wound had nearly taken his life, was his mind playing a sick game? 

He was discharged after a few tests with the reminder to treat the shoulder with care—only to find himself honorably discharged from the military and once again left Invalid.T he taste those words left in his mouth were absolutely rotten and as John walked down the side of the street, dodging oddly dressed people and horse carriages, he found himself missing Sherlock.

The limp was back, no doubt psychosomatic once again, and the pain in his shoulder was so completely fresh it was unreal. He didn't know where he was walking too, the military men who had visited his hospital room told him where he could go but he didn't want to head to the invalid house. He wanted to go home, to 221B, to Sherlock who would scowl at him for being stupid enough to leave in a storm.

It seemed his mind was listening to his body more than he was, as John found himself standing below a door with the golden numbers 221B on it. John stared, his mouth running dry as he reached for the knob—and stopped himself. He didn't live here, Sherlock wouldn't remember him, there was nothing left for him here despite how much that thought hurt.

Taking a ragged breath the once again ex-army Doctor turned and directed his eyes to a boy handing out newspapers. Stepping over to him he held his hand out for one and exchanged the money. Instantly his eyes went to the date, staring at it with some hopeful gaze as if it could give him some insight to all of this. All it did was crush him even more and cause a headache to start to grow.

June 30th, 1880.

That was it, he knew the date and the cold feeling in his chest only got worse.

According to the date and what the Military Men had said in his Hospital Room, he was on the Battle of Maiwand which if he remembered right from his text books—the Afghan's won. Somehow the fact he was only shot would have probably been the lest of his worries had he actually stayed on the battle.

Instinctively John flipped the newspaper open and scanned through it a bit more, his eyes landing on the obituaries before scrolling over to a recent murder case tucked toward the back of the paper. At first glance it seemed like it was nothing but John's eyes were trained in Sherlock interest to pick out anything odd about them. The case seemed straight forward, a man and woman had a domestic, woman stormed out, man was found hours later shot to death.

The paper didn't go into much detail but one thing that did stick out to John was the wife's report. She was questioned in suspicion of the murder but upon her report she claimed to have gone to her sisters. Now, with all the time in running around London that John had done with Sherlock; he knew from where she was staying to the address of the crime scene house—to make it in time of the murder when you would have to walk or take a carriage, it was near impossible.

Sherlock would know that, he was sure of it by simply looking at the crime scene. He could probably tell that by the dirt on the woman's shoes. For some reason, the humor of the situation, made him suddenly start to laugh. Shaking his head he folded up the paper and slid it into his waistcoat. Something he wouldn't get used to here; the clothing.

He missed his jumpers and instead was stuck in a three piece ditto suit consisting of a sack coat with matching waistcoat and trousers.On top of his head was of course a top hat, sinking low around his head and making John want to rip it off. He wasn't used to wearing hats and having to actually wear one—he realized he didn't care much for them.

Releasing a heavy sigh John once again started the long walk down the road, wondering if he should return to the invalid house and see what it's like there. Yet by the time that John looked up to see where he was and what street he was on—he found himself standing before police barricades. The front door to the house was left wide open and from where he was standing John could see the bloodstains of the man reported in the papers.

The body had been removed already but the crime hadn't been cleaned up yet seeing as the officers were still collecting evidence. From the splatter of the blood the doctor in him could see where the man was laying and in what position. Maybe he was getting better at this Detective thing than he thought than Sherlock thought.

There fight once again flooded into his mind, Sherlock embarrassing him at the crime scene then immediately calling him a moron. The anger the Doctor felt toward his friend shoved itself at the forefront of his mind but slowly started to fall when he caught a glimpse of someone inside the house. Their coat billowed behind the man as they moved swiftly about, taking in everything that John was previously looking at. He was close enough that if they spoke he could hear them and decided it would be more interesting to listen to what they thought of the crime than go home.

He watched the man kneel down next to the bloodstains as someone approached behind them, the irritated look in their body giving away more than they probably wanted it to. "What do you got for me, Holmes?"

Holmes? That voice; Lestrade? John could feel his own breath hitch in his throat, his eyes moving between the two people as he anxiously waited for the man who the officer addressed to speak. It couldn't be Mycroft, it had to be Sherlock, he was the only one of the Holmes brothers who actually went to a crime scene. Mycroft loved his desk work and the only time John had seen him at a crime scene was to check on Sherlock. The person he watched on the floor—that position and questioning gaze he couldn't see but knew was there, was no doubt if a Holmes—Sherlock.

Yet he couldn't bring himself to believe that—not until he heard the voice. So John kept watching, his right hand gripping the handle of his new cane to the point he thought he might break it. The stranger stood and moved his head to follow the path off the bloodstains to the wall.

"Judging by the trajectory of the blood splatter and the bullet being between the mans eyes, whoever shot him had to be about his height or a bit shorter. The wife was the same height as him wasn't she? She claims to have been staying with her sister after storming out but no one can confirm seeing her, and her sister happens to be out of town when we want to question her. The woman is lying and clearly is the murderer; arrest the wife."

No, no, he was wrong, John knew he was wrong. Sherlock was observing but he wasn't seeing. Yes what he said made sense but John knew guns, he knew bullets and if the shot was between the mans eyes then a single distressed woman wouldn't be able to do that. Not to mention the walkway to the house had stairs and the man was killed near the door. Ballistics evidence wasn't something that really existed in this time but John had spent a lot of time with Sherlock who knew things like bullet trajectory.

"You're wrong." He spoke the words before he really knew what he was saying, and quite honestly how quite the crime scene got could make you hear a pin being dropped from a mile away. The other onlookers who had gathered like him were deathly silent, staring at him in both awe and confusion. Lestrade who was observing Sherlock had turned toward the crowd as well, his own eyes wide like the prospect of someone questioning Sherlock Holmes was ridicules.

It might actually be to. 

Sherlock, bloody Sherlock, was staring at him with a glare that quite honestly John had only seen directed at Anderson when he said something stupid that Sherlock claimed; 'lowered the IQ of the crime scene'. Then he was starting toward him, his coat once again moving behind him in that elegant fashion has he took quick steps toward the edge of the crime scene. That piercing, searching gaze was once again going all over his body right up till he stopped before John.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

The question was so incredibly familiar to him and John could feel a warmth growing in his stomach as his nerves started to kick heavily into gear. "Afghan, you're wrong you know. The wife didn't do it." It wasn't a question, it was a statement. John knew Sherlock was wrong in this.

The glare was back again and John stood firm against the look, watching Sherlock once again search him over before the stoic expression again returned to his face. Sherlock stepped aside and motioned for John to cross the threshold into the crime scene, he didn't need a second invitation.

The Doctor stepped around the barricade and moved toward the house, limping on his cane as he looked to the blood splatter the closer he got to it. He shifted a bit and looked over to Sherlock who was still gazing at him with that quizzical look. "You're limp is Psychosomatic--"

"I know."

"You're living in an invalid house, recently discharged from the military. Probably shot, definitely shot--"

"Please stop deducing me."

That was it, that simply slip of the tongue and they both stared at each other. Sherlock's gaze got harder and John swallowed, feeling as if someone stuffed something down his throat to cut off his breathing. Quickly the Doctor tried to cover himself. "You're Sherlock Holmes, right? I read about you in the paper. That is what you do, right? Look at a person and know everything. It's quite remarkable."

The praise, like before, seemed to catch him off guard but there was that hint of a smile that was so distinctly Sherlock that only John could recognize. It was the smile he got when John commented on his deductions being brilliant because that was what they were. No matter how angry John got at Sherlock, he still saw the man as absolutely brilliant.

"What do you know about gun's, Sher—Holmes." Right, Victorian time, everyone was referred to by their last name. Blending in was going to be a lot harder than he thought it would be.

"I know everything--"

The way he broke off and the look he was giving John, the doctor knew what he was looking for. "Watson, Doctor John Watson."

"Watson, then. I know everything I need to know."

"I don't think you do. Come here I'll show you."

Again the glare was back and John only caught a glimpse of it before he turned away. Quickly and with a determination in his step, John made his way to the bottom of the stairs to the house and abruptly stopped walking. "Now what you see is a man and woman standing near the door arguing, the woman preparing to leave and the man trying to stop her, right?" John briefly glanced back to Sherlock before turning away. "The woman would have been shouting at her husband, threatening to leave and when the man made a move to hit or grab her, she would take the gun from his trousers." The Doctor moved a bit back and turned just slightly so he could see Sherlock. "At that distance, so close to each other a head shot would be easy, sure, marksman perfection if she knew how to handle a gun. But, and I know feelings aren't your specialty, put yourself in her shoes. Frantic, crying, scared woman who took the gun, where would someone like that aim if she really wanted to shoot him?"

He watched the gears in Sherlock's head start to move, his eyes darting over the crime scene and taking in everything once more. John would even speculate that he was replaying the crime in his head and what the woman would do. "Stomach, middle chest even, not a kill shot."

"Very good. Now look where the bullet hole in the wall actually is." John reached his hand up and pointed to the mark on the wall further from the door. He could tell the bullet went straight through the victims head, a clean shot. No scared, frantic woman would dot hat and—John could see him catching up.

"Brilliant! Why is it brilliant? The man was clearly a marksman, assassin even. Hired to take this man out." Sherlock started to pace the small walkway of the house and John had to step up next to Lestrade to get out of his way as everything started to settle in. "The man and woman had a domestic and she did walk out but not without a call to her lover. Oh don't give me that look Lestrade of course she had a lover. Failing marriage, over night bag in the wardrobe, expensive perfume she only wore on occasion and not around her husband. The lover, probably a Lord or Earl, clearly had the money to higher an assassin, even the means to do it. He heard how she got hit by her husband and sent word to the killer, giving him clear instructions on what to do. He knocked on the door before taking a few steps back, just a per-caution, and the second the door opened he pulled the trigger and took the shot. Clear shot, no messy execution, his hand didn't even shake. Arrest the boyfriend on assistant murder charges and get him to talk on who he hired."

Lestrade made a grumbling nose next to him and walked away to talk to someone, assuming a page or errand boy since—they didn't have phones in this time. Sherlock figured it out so quickly with just a few words from John, even in this time he was spectacular. "Extraordinary She—Holmes, really brilliant."

That look of content and even, dare John call it that, embarrassment seemed to cross over Sherlock's face and he turned completely to look to the Doctor. "I play the violin at all hours of the night and sometimes don't communicate for days on end. Would that bother you?"

John knew where this conversation was going and he didn't even need to hesitate in his answer. "Absolutely not. What's the address?"

That questioning look came back before it was once again gone. "Two-hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street. Would you like to follow me? We can check it out now."

John gave a nod of his head and followed Sherlock to the side of the road where he called for a carriage. A carriage, pulled by a horse and everything. Honestly, even if he accepted this as reality, it was still hard for him to fathom. Was he talking to one of his Sherlock's ancestors? Was he living the life of the one his own ancestor would have taken? It was hard to imagine, and if so then he was sure to have taken a different path, messed everything up for the John Watson who was supposed to be living this time.

"I don't recall being in the paper-" John stiffened ever so slightly, but was sure Sherlock already saw it. "-or even being interviewed."

Lie, he needed a lie that was also the truth because there was no way that Sherlock wouldn't see through his deception. There was a lump growing in his throat again up until something came to mind. "Mycroft." It was a lie but it was also a truth. "I met with him once, before, he told me about a brother he has." Mycroft had kidnapped him in his own time, and he had mentioned things about Sherlock, so while it was a lie it was also the truth.

It was also apparently enough to convince Sherlock because his face turned into that usual one he got when he thought about Mycroft. "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"No, not yet."

"Shame, if he does take it we can split it."

"I'm not taking money to spy on you, Holmes."

"Don't be arid, Watson."

John rolled his eyes as the carriage came to a stop outside 221B. Sherlock exited first and John was quick to follow him, keeping close to his side as the door was thrown open and Sherlock started up the stairs. He vaguely caught sight of Mrs. Hudson peeking her head out from around the door and flashed her a smile before following Sherlock up the stairs. No doubt she was going to make tea before following them up.

Waiting for him at the door, Sherlock watched John limp his way over to him before pushing the door to the flat open. He moved, elegantly, to his chair before tossing himself down onto it and John took a second to run his eyes over everything. It... was the same and yet different, the furniture clearly old and all signs of technology missing. Even the kitchen lacked a fridge and stove, he wasn't actually sure how to preserve food in this era but he did know that they cooked over the fire... or hearth.

"There is a bedroom upstairs if you will be needing two—Mr. Holmes look at the mess you've made!"

John started from his thoughts and shot his gaze over to Mrs. Hudson, watching as she took the tea into the kitchen. Following her he gave a bit of assistance in clearing the table, moving some of Sherlock's experiments so she could sit the platter down. He helped himself to one cup and moved to the chairs, sitting himself down in the usual, yet different, chair and Mrs. Hudson brought Sherlock his cuppa.

"John Watson this is the landlady Mrs. Hudson. That will be all Mrs. Hudson, thank you, I need to talk to Watson some more. I'll let you know if he takes the flat." She gave a huff at the dismissal before shooting John a smile and taking her leave. John waited till she was gone before moving his gaze over to Sherlock who seemed to once again be studying him. Honestly, he felt like a bug under a microscope.

"You didn't ask Mrs. Hudson's name, didn't even question anything when you saw her. You looked like you recognized the flat and even had no problems touching my experiments."

"I think you're imagining things." John sipped his tea and tried to not fidget under the look that was being given to him. He'd never be more thankful for his military training than he was when around Sherlock. "I will take the flat, by the way. Any questions about me? Since you haven't asked anything I assume you deduced it already."

Sherlock seemed to consider this a moment before speaking. "You're a man of military aspect with a tan and recent injury, both suggestive of the campaign in Afghanistan, as you stated, and an enforced departure from it because of the injury. However, you fidget in those clothes as if you're unused to them, constantly nudging at your hat. Even campaigning in the military wouldn't make you uncomfortable in those clothes yet for some reason I cannot deduce why you are. You perceive to know about me and yet each reason is illogical, at least till I ask Mycroft the truth, and you seem unnerved each time I ask why you give me false information. Meaning you're hiding something. The question now is; why? Why would you lie unless you're here to spy on me. You took the room to easily, no questions ask, didn't even want to know what the rent is."

He was an idiot, he should have known that he would be unable to fool Sherlock. He was never any good at it, even trying to fool his own Sherlock. But he knew he had to think of some elaborate lie because there was no way Sherlock would believe the truth. He was a man of science, a brilliant man who would scoff at the idea of John being in the wrong time.

"I did not lie to you," truth, "I have met with Mycroft-" truth, "-and I am certainly not here to spy on you." Not a lie, so Sherlock couldn't find fault in what he said. He knew that, and from the confused, bewildered, look he was getting from the great Detective, he knew Sherlock couldn't either.

"It doesn't clear things up despite being the truth." Sherlock leaned forward and reached for John's wrist, gently sliding two fingers over his pulse point. He knew what Sherlock was doing, fear, lies, attraction, it sped your pulse up it was how Sherlock solved the case with Irene Adler. John already knew his pulse was increasing but it wasn't for the reasons that Sherlock would deduce.

He was nervous, being so close to Sherlock who—wasn't Sherlock. Being in a time not his own. Trying to lie, truthfully, his way through all of this.

"You're pulse is racing."

"But I'm not lying to you."

"Are you frightened then? Why?"

"Sherlock." John yanked his wrist back and stood up, stepping around the chair and moving to the kitchen. "Stop trying to deduce me."

"You call me by my first name. You've almost done it several times." He could hear the other standing and following behind him, making John clench his teeth together as he knew the other wasn't going to do it, he wasn't going to stop till he's figured it out. "You're not used to anything here but you're clearly form London with your accent. Who are you, John Watson?"

John gave a reluctant sigh and sat the mug down onto the counter, the tremor in his right hand present but perhaps the shaking was more from fear than anything now. He could feel the pain in his shoulder increase and his limp completely vanish. Biting into his bottom lip the Doctor slowly turned and raised his eyes up to the other. "Doctor John Hamish Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. British Army Doctor and best friend to Sherlock Holmes Consulting Detective at the New Scotland Yard... in 2016 London."

You could hear a Mrs. Hudson running around down stairs at how quite the room had suddenly become. Sherlock's face was completely unreadable but he knew there was something there. He was thinking, trying to process this in some form or manor and was completely eliminating everything that he could. He would deduce the odd way John talked, walked, and acted. He would deduce the way he addressed the other and seemed to know him. He would deduce everything down to what color shirt he was wearing and the reason for it, only to come back with the fact that something was wrong.

"Impossible." The word was quick, short, a denial and yet—John still wasn't sure Sherlock completely believed that.

"I know, I'm living it and yet I don't completely believe it. I'm torn between thinking this is reality or a dream and the only thing I can continue to do is live it like a game! There is no clear answer here however as a genius once told me; once you eliminate the impossible--"

John was cut off as Sherlock muttered the remaining words. "--Whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. I've never had my own words used against me in such a way, and I still refused to believe that this is reality and the truth. There must be a probable explanation. Did you hit your head after you got shot?"

"No."

"End up in a coma?"

"No."

"Take any bizarre pills?"

"Absolutely not."

And that was when confused frustration started to settle in. John knew it, he could see it, the same exact kind of feeling he had when he first woke up on the sandy ground of Afghanistan. It was painful, confusing and his head hurt so much trying to figure it all out. Now, here, Sherlock was in the same predicament and maybe if he accepted all of this he would be able to help John get home.

"I need proof, something, to confirm what you're saying obviously." Those heterochromia eyes turned to meet his own simple brown ones, gazing deeply into his eyes with a sort of determination that John didn't normally get to see from Sherlock. What was he supposed to tell him though? If this wasn't a dream and he revealed to much about the future who knows what could happen, or even if Sherlock would believe him. 

What if he told him something about Sherlock though? Were his Sherlock and this one similar enough? So far, as he had seen it they were, but to what extent?

Only one way to find out. "You have a horrible sleeping and eating habit, barely even getting enough sleep to consider it a restful sleep. You eat only when you're not on cases and not even more than a meal a day or nitpicking. You like to experiment on anything you canget your hands on, especially body parts. Mycroft is nearly a decade older than you and is practically the British Government though he claims to only occupy a small part of it, you're words--" He had to stop, the wide and astonished look in Sherlock's eyes was a bit alarming.

There was almost something akin to fright in his eyes as if someone knowing so much about his life was terrifying to him—and John couldn't blame him. When he met Sherlock the other knew everything about him with such a simple look, and it had unnerved as well as amazed John, and he was sure that Sherlock was having a similar feeling right now, as well as grasping the idea that John was from the future.

Had he given up on thinking this was a dream?

"Sherlock? I'm sorry, are--"

"Is that what you call the other me? Sherlock? Only Mycroft usually calls me by my first name, well Mycroft and Mummy."

John pressed his lips together tightly and shifted around a bit, his hand rubbing at his sore shoulder wound. "Yes, and he calls me John."

"I see." He turned and John tried to keep an eye on his face but he couldn't see it anymore. "I'm still going to call you Watson, you can call me Sherlock if you wish though I can confirm you will get odd looks."

John didn't doubt that, and he really didn't want to give away to anyone who wasn't as smart as Sherlock that he wasn't from here. "How about... I call you Sherlock in private? But, does this mean you accept what I said? You believe me?"

He appeared to contemplate this for a few seconds, his mind once again running as he gazed a bit at John. "I don't believe I have any other choice but that. No one could get access to that much information without knowing me personally. Even Mycroft wouldn't talkt hat deeply about me to a stranger without alerting me to what he's done."

John didn't find that hard to believe, Mycroft was a lot but he did care for Sherlock, that was the one thing against all other odds that John was sure of completely. The fact that Sherlock believed him though, when being a man of science, was a bit hard for John to believe. Regardless of the area or time—did Sherlock trust him so much? They were best friends, but not in this time. In this time they were practically strangers... they were strangers. That left another question though if Sherlock believed he was from another time did that mean this wasn't a dream? He didn't want to let go of that idea because it was the one that made the most sense and meant he could just wake up.

All this thinking was starting to hurt. Questioning reality, questing Sherlock. His best friend who just wasn't his best friend anymore. Now that thought hurt him deeply. Reality Sherlock, his best friend, the person he cared about more than anything in his current life. He spent time with him, ran around chasing cases with him and honestly John loved every single moment of it. To stand before the person who looked so much like Sherlock, though John did miss the curls that fell over his face, was hard on him. He wantedhis best friend and what this was—was a stranger who didn't know him. He was sure the expression on his face gave it away though because this Sherlock turned to face him completely.

"Are you alright, Watson?"

John forced a smile onto his face, though it didn't quite reach his eyes, and he gave a nod. "Shouldn't I be asking you that, though?This must be hard to take in. You're a man of science, Sherlock, you put facts before all else."

Again he seemed to think about this, placing a hand against his chin as he continued to observe John. "While that has fact to it, I cannot deny the other facts such as how much you know me, or a version of me... an decedent?" Sherlock seemed to contemplate this as he turned and continued into the living room, stopping next to the window that even John's own Sherlock seemed to enjoy standing near just watching the people outside.

John poured himself a second cup of tea and turned himself to follow the other, keeping an eye on him as the Detective reached down and grabbed the neck of the violin along with the bow. Before he could use it to think though, like usual, John called out to him; "Sherlock." There was a pause and those gorgeous eyes turned to look to him, again studying him like a bug under a microscope. "Will you... help me get home? There has to be a reason I'm here, right? The real John Watson of this time, the one who was firstly put in Afghanistan where I woke up, this is his life I'm controlling."

The violin was moved to the mans shoulder but the bow continued to rest against his leg. John couldn't read his face this time, but he knew the other was thinking he always was. "Yes, Watson, but as a man of science I know little to nothing about the supernatural."

"You have to have heard something over the years, what did you delete all non-scientific things?" There was a cocky smile that spread across his face—though it vanished at the look that Sherlock had. Surprise, mild confuse, and suddenly it was all wiped away for the blank defensive look he kept up.

"You must be very... close if you know about the deletion."

John sighed and turned his back to the other, a tiny worried smile spreading across his face though it held a bit of—sadness to it. He could feel that longing coming back, that desire to see Sherlock despite the fight that they had, despite the fact that he would be called moronic a few more times. He missed him, more than he wanted to admit. "I consider Sherlock my best friend, and he I. He told me once that he doesn't have friends... he's just got one."

Thinking he had said enough for the night John moved through the flat and up the stairs to where his bedroom is supposed to be. He didn't own anything, he hadn't gone shopping and honestly he didn't even know where his money was. An army pension was sent to the bank, but what bank did the Watson of this time use? Sherlock was far to lanky and skinny to be able to loan him any clothes, perhaps Mrs. Hudson still had some of her husband's old ones though.

The upstairs bedroom was quite similar to his old one. There was a bed in the middle of the room, larger than his own, and a nightstand on the right side. Across from the bed was a wardrobe instead of a dresser, something he would have to get used to, and in the corner was a small writing desk. John moved to that first and sat his cane against it along with the cup of tea.

Did this John have a storage place? He had to have owned things before going into the military. Harriet and his parents hung onto his own but—there was no guarantee they were alive, there had to be away to find out the information he needed just for survival purposes.He was lucky that the Commanding Officer who came to talk to him gave him some civilian clothes for the time being, and he did still have his uniform though it wouldn't be appropriate for a discharged soldier to walk around in it.

A light knocking sound drew his attention over to the door and Sherlock was once again standing there. At making eye contact he moved into the room and held out a set of clothes for him. "They should fit enough to sleep in, they're big on me after all, and if you leave your clothes downstairs I can wash them for tomorrow. I sent word to Mycroft on needing information about John Watson, whatever he has should be enough for us to get a grasp on the person you are existing as."

Honestly, he should have figured Sherlock would instantly understand what he was thinking. This was exactly what kind of person Sherlock was. He just—knew things before anyone else did. Though at this moment he couldn't be more grateful for that. John took the clothes from the other with a nod of his head, looking them over curiously as they were not quite what he normally wore. He could just sleep in his underwear but Sherlock was so nice to let him borrow them. "Thank you, Sherlock, I'll see you in the morning."

John waited till the other was gone before closing the door behind him and setting the clothes aside. He stripped down what he had on and changed into the shirt and pants. He sat the clothes as instructed outside his door, assuming Sherlock was going to have Mrs. Hudson wash them. He never saw Sherlock do his own laundry, the man probably deleted how to do it.

The nightmares came back that night, more fresh in his mind after having to relive it so directly, relive getting shot all over again. He didn't sleep well and most of the night he lied awake in the bed, running through his head how he could have possibly gotten back in 1880 London. He knew he needed to remember what happened after he left the flat angry at Sherlock, but trying to get your mind to remember what was forgotten, especially if he had a concussion, was hard. Therapists had tricks, like hypnosis, but John didn't truly believe in such things.

Of course, till now, he also didn't believe in time travel or vivid dreams.

When the sun rose John decided to get out of bed, finding the clothes from yesterday neatly folded onto his desk. He quickly changed, fighting with the vest a bit, before carrying the top hat with him downstairs. He tossed the garment onto the chair and went to make tea, heating the water up over the fire with a few tea bags in it.

A knock at the door drew his attention away from the fire and over to the man who stood as tall as he remembered him to be. John honestly thought it was impossible for Mycroft to not look more posh but the man had somehow proven that theory wrong. "Ah, you must be Doctor John Watson I presume? My name is Mycroft Holmes, I brought the documents requested by my brother. I must say I find this most confusing, why didn't he simply ask you about the information he desires?"

Shit, he didn't really discuss a story with Sherlock about that. John fidgeted in his clothes and slowly turned to face the other, his mouth opening till a voice rang through from the bathroom, effectively cutting the Doctor off. "Mycroft, can't you wait to interrogate my new flatmate? I asked for the files because Watson has been over on a campaign for a while, there is no way for him to know what has become of his family and his things."

Sherlock made his way over to Mycroft and snatched the file out of his hands, sitting in his usual chair with the papers already open. His eyes scanned the document quickly and when he glanced briefly at John he decided to speak. "Army doctor, 34, shot in Afghan in the shoulder. Older brother to a sister who died of alcohol poisoning, a father who died when he was fifteen of the same thing and a mother who has remarried and completely forgotten her previous family. Your bank account is the one directly in town, I believe Mycroft and I use the same one, and your belongings were with the military probably sent to the invalid home waiting for you. Though now that your address has changed no doubt they will ship them here." The file was snapped clothes and Sherlock relaxed back in the chair, holding it out to his brother who quickly took it back. He could tell the other man was still weary of John and completely confused on what just happened.

He was almost afraid, though, of what would happen should Mycroft deduce that he wasn't from this time. Would he be sent to some Government funded lab to be tested on like an alien? He quite liked living and not becoming a tool to be poked and prodded. "Yes, well, I already knew most of that." Harriet was dead. Sure, most of it wasn't far from what he already knew. Their father was a drinker and had died, but Harriet was dead? The feeling made him want to check on his sister, his sister back in his time who certainly wasn't dead.

His head was starting to hurt again.

"Sherlock I also talked to Lestrade today on my departure over. The man from yesterday, the Lord, confessed the second he was arrested. They have yet to find the hitman."

"But of course, the police are so lazy. Thank you for the information Mycroft, now if you would please show yourself to the door. Watson and I here have things to discuss that do not need your Government prodding."

John could feel the older brother roll his eyes without even having to look at him. When the tea started to boil he removed the it from the fire and headed into the kitchen, listening to Mycroft's retreating steps with a call of; "I'll see you later brother dear." He poured himself and Sherlock a cup, adding what he wanted to his own.

Behind him footsteps quietly approached and Sherlock's long, calloused fingers landed on his shoulder to gently turn him. He frowned up at the other who was intently focused on his clothes and instantly started to fix them the second John was facing him. He straightened out the waistcoat and buttoned up the vest correctly, tugging it down to rest a bit lower than where John had it. The collar on the shirt was fanned out a bit and after picking off a bit of lint he stepped back. "Honestly Watson, are all people from your time so messy? You would think ones own mother didn't teach them how to dress."

He gave the other an exaggerated eye roll and grabbed the tea to hand to him. Sherlock took it gratefully and started back toward the living room. "I hate to tell you this," he started getting the Detectives attention once more. "but these clothes went out of style long before I was even born. Though you and Mycroft still look as posh as ever--wait... I mean your decedent." Was it really getting so hard to tell them apart?

He watched Sherlock's face for a moment but whatever emotion he was feeling John couldn't see. Usually Sherlock was quite hard to read but the closer John got to him the more he figured out how to identify certain things. But there was moments when the man didn't want to be read and John simply couldn't. It was hard and frustrating at the same time because he wanted to know right now what Sherlock was thinking about.

"We must be a lot alike, my decedent and I. I must admit if the John Watson you've taken up resident as is anything like you, I wouldn't mind keeping him around even after you've identified a way home."

That... was as close to a compliment as he was sure he would ever get from Sherlock Holmes, and it was an incredible one at that. A smile spread across his face and John made his way over to Sherlock's side, reaching one hand down and touching the ends of the gelled hair, though it felt more like oil. Sherlock tensed at such an action though so John let his fingers linger a second longer before he dropped them down. "Sherlock, my Sherlock, has curly hair. It suits him quite well. Honestly I can say I prefer it to this and I dislike having to comb my own hair back."

"It has it's benefits," The detective admitted, "it certainly makes it harder for people to grab a hold of your hair."

"Certainly makes you look more posh."

"Honestly, that very well might be the main point of doing it. Though Mycroft looks like a greased up chimpanzee in a suit."

John let out a loud laugh at that, Sherlock smirking along with him quite pleased with himself. Laughing with this Sherlock, talking about such things, it almost felt like he was home—and perhaps that was why it was so hard to keep a constant reminder with himself that this Sherlock was not his own. This Sherlock had a John Watson whose body he was currently inhabiting, if they were even supposed to meet though. It was an odd thought really, imagining that there was a world where he would never meet Sherlock. What would have become of him in that invalid house if he was never to have moved to 221B.

The thought was honestly a bit depressing.

If he hadn't met Sherlock he would still be limping, still be completely broke and unable to pay most his bills, he might even have still been suicidal. He never admitted it out loud but living with Sherlock might have saved his life. The nightmares were nearly gone, he was limp free and the closest the gun made it to his head was when he was aiming it to protect Sherlock.

He enjoyed living since meeting Sherlock and that gave him a reason to exist. The crimes they solved gave him a reason to exist. Like now, he hadn't needed his cane, it was left upstairs and all he had to do was move in with Sherlock. There wasn't any pain anymore, except in his shoulder but that was where he was shot.

"Watson, you're thinking to loud. Has the other Sherlock told you that your face reveals so many emotions? Like reading a book honestly. The future of the Watson you currently identify as is certainly unknown, but perhaps by finding me as him you've made a good effect on his life rather than a negative one. It certainly helps you, and gives me an interesting puzzle to solve. I won't be bored for a while."

That arrogant sod! "I'm glad my plight could be of interest to you."


End file.
